


Love Loving Not Itself

by angevin2



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Awkward Family Dinners, Coming out (sort of), Family Therapy Is Not Yet Invented, Gen, Mild Period-Accurate Homophobia, Plantagenets' A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4727834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angevin2/pseuds/angevin2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aumerle's been pardoned for his efforts to overthrow Henry IV. It doesn't make things any less awkward at home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Loving Not Itself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [medeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/medeia/gifts).



> I was picturing the 2013-14 RSC cast (Oliver Ford-Davies and Marty Cruikshank as the Duke and Duchess of York, and Oliver Rix as Aumerle) when I wrote this, but the fic isn't really specific to it, and I've entirely ignored the production's decision to give Exton's part to Aumerle.
> 
> The Duchess of York has a name in this because I gave York a POV and it didn't seem right for him not to call his wife by her actual name in narration. Historically, Aumerle's mother was Isabella of Castile, who had died in 1392; the Duchess in the play doesn't seem much like the real Isabella at all, so I assume her to be a fictional/composite character (given York's remarriage to Joan Holland), but I gave her the name of her closest historical counterpart but in the most anglicized form possible. It's not like there weren't about a million Isabels and Isabellas in the royal family anyway!

Edward of Rutland, formerly Duke of Aumerle, hasn't exchanged more than about two words with his father since The Incident, as he and his mother have come to refer to it. Mostly his mother, who is always trying to get him to talk about it, or at least talking _at_ him about it. 

And it's not as though he has anything to say -- or rather, anything he cares to say. He's been spending his days, since he received Bolingbroke's pardon, hiding in his rooms, his thoughts hundreds of miles away in a dank castle in Yorkshire. He's been kept under close watch; his mother is always finding excuses to spend time with him, and when he manages to beg off, his solitude is repeatedly interrupted by servants whose officiousness is likely a cover for their duty to report his whereabouts back to his parents.

They needn't worry, though. It's not that Edward doesn't _want_ to find a way, somehow, to save Richard. It's that he has no idea _how._ Even if there were someone left alive who wanted to restore the true king, they would never trust him. And why would they? He doesn't trust _himself_ not to ruin everything. So he spends his days pacing around, feeling miserable and avoiding his father as much as he can.

Which makes it a most unpleasant shock when he comes to have supper with his mother one grey February day and his father is sitting there glowering. (The glowering isn't much of a shock; it's the only expression he's worn since all of this started)

"Mother..." he grumbles through his teeth, and at the same time, his father gets quickly to his feet, protesting, "Damn it, Bel, you could have warned me about this -- "

"I am not going to spend the rest of my life," his mother says, "watching the two of you storming around avoiding each other. Now, I know you have your differences, but you can't hide from each other forever."

"But -- " Edward says, and before he can get in another word _both_ of his parents are glaring at him. 

" _Sit. Down._ " his mother says, and Edward obeys, privately wishing that Bolingbroke _had_ cut his head off, because he's just going to die of embarrassment anyway, and at least beheading is relatively quick -- for that matter, being hanged, drawn, and quartered is relatively quick, compared to the permanent, soul-sucking embarrassment that is his life now. He thanks God that at least there's wine on the table already.

"I don't know what you expect me to say," Edward mutters. 

"Me neither," his father says. 

They're both spared by the arrival of servants with dishes. All three of them sit up a bit straighter until everything has been set forth. Edward is dimly aware of his parents chattering about something inconsequential, as though nothing had happened at all. There's a kind of buzz slowly beginning to fill his head, starting behind his eyes and expanding into every available space. The smell of the food on the table makes his gorge rise, and he's tempted to flee the room except that then the door closes behind the servants and he's trapped.

"I _expect_ you," his mother says, "to stop acting like a pair of children."

"I am _not_ acting like a child," his father says. 

"You're certainly pouting like one," his mother says, and Edward, who is in the middle of draining his cup of wine in a desperate attempt to get intoxicated enough to forget where he is, coughs, chokes, and ends up spitting some of the wine into the blancmange. "And you're just as bad, Edward," she adds. "Skulking around all day -- you're just like your father. No wonder you can't get along." 

"I am _not_ just like my father -- " Edward begins, but his father is looking at him with an oddly crumpled expression, and he breaks off.

"Only one of us is a loyal subject," his father says, in apparent agreement, and Edward's jaw drops open as he slams his hands against the tabletop. 

"Can you even hear yourself?" he says. "Or have you just _forgotten_ how you just handed England over?" 

"Edward!" his mother says, laying a hand on his arm. "Keep your voice down, dear."

"You swore fealty to him just like everyone else," his father says. "I needn't ask if you've forgotten _that._ "

Edward can feel the blood rising in his face, but words fail him for a moment, and he reaches for his cup again. 

"We're all King Henry's subjects," his mother says. "Edward, I know you and King Richard were close -- "

"That's one way of putting it," his father says under his breath, and Edward feels something inside him snap. 

"What?" he says, slamming the cup against the table so that the board wobbles and the wine sloshes onto the linen, leaving a spreading purple stain.

" -- but we can't change that now -- " his mother continues. 

" _What?_ " Edward says again, as if she hadn't spoken. 

" -- and we have to accept that what happened is in Our Lord's hands," his mother says, raising her voice even further as if it would get her husband and son to quiet down instead of merely increasing the general volume in the room.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Edward says, rolling his eyes again and pushing his chair back in order to get up and leave.

"Richard is my nephew and I love him," his father says, as though he were explaining something self-evident to a very small and very slow child, "but I know perfectly well what he is."

"You don't know anything," Edward says. His face feels flushed and his throat is tight and he knows he's about to say something he's going to regret, probably forever, and it's not even because of the wine. "How can you love Richard? You don't even love me!"

His father's face falls, and his mouth moves for a moment like words won't come out. "I stood surety for you," he managed. "I scarcely had time to promise your loyalty to the king and you ran off to commit treason. And you didn't even do it _well_!" 

" _Richard_ is the king," Edward says, his own voice strangled, "not Bolingbroke, and you let them send him off to rot God knows where! Do you think this was about _you_? It's nothing to do with you. I had to try to save Richard because I _love_ him, all right?" He can feel the hot tears pricking embarrassingly at the corners of his eyes. "I love him."

There's a moment where everything seems to hang in the air. His father's face crumples again, and his mother looks down at her hands. For a moment, Edward feels light-headed, like he's being bled. He'd always thought his father finding out about him and Richard would be the worst thing that could happen to him, and yet he doesn't regret saying it after all. There's no point. His father already hates him anyway. He wants to run away, leap on his horse and ride off into the night -- anywhere, anywhere but here. He gets to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over in his haste, and flees the room.

***

"Well, I hope you're happy," Bel says, after a long silence.

"Oh, for God's sake," Edmund says, glaring at the fish tart in front of him as if he could make it un-congeal with the force of his annoyance. Nobody's even touched their food. "This whole thing was _your_ brilliant idea. I was _quite_ happy keeping to myself."

"Of course, dear," Bel says, patting his hand. "I'm sure you quite enjoy sulking."

"That's not what I meant," he grumbles, breaking off a piece of the now-tepid fish tart. "I wasn't ready for this and you know it."

"Well, when _were_ you going to be ready?" she says. "You obviously weren't going to talk to each other on your own. You're too much alike for that."

"Hmph," Edmund grunts, as it's somewhere between "You might possibly have a point" and "Only one of us has the courage of our convictions," which is what the annoying little voice in the back of his head has been telling him practically since this whole thing started, and it isn't him. But then, if his son couldn't bring himself to be a martyr for love, who could expect him to be a martyr for duty? Let Edward try to talk down an invading army -- then he'd know what was what.

"And anyway," Bel continues, "I suppose it's better to have things out in the open?"

"I've always wanted to know for certain that my son is a sodomite who hates me."

"I'm sure he doesn't hate you, not really." She doesn't mention the sodomite part, and he doesn't mention that she didn't mention it. "Maybe I should go talk to him." She smooths her skirts as if she's preparing to get up, before shrugging and sinking back into her chair to have a drink of wine instead. "I've been talking to him since we left court."

Edmund rubs at the bridge of his nose and sighs. He wishes, for what must be the ten thousandth time, that John were here. None of this would have happened if he hadn't gone and _died_. Bastard.

He has every intention of returning to his previous habit of avoiding Edward, but as it happens he encounters him that very night, in the oratory after compline. Edmund bites back an acerbic remark about the disconnect between his predilections and his sudden show of piety -- after all, Richard had always been very genuinely devout; there had been no reason to doubt that. But Edward had always placed his faith first and foremost in Richard. He looked at his king like a man who'd seen an angel. How could he have thought no one knew?

It takes another moment before he realizes he's thinking about Richard as though he were already dead.

Edward isn't in a very pious attitude, anyway; he's sitting on the part of a prie-dieu you're supposed to kneel on, with his arms wrapped around his knees. He looks very much like he did when he was a boy, and Edmund feels a sudden aching impulse to ruffle his hair and tell him everything will be all right. He holds his peace, though. It would be a lie anyway.

"I was just leaving," Edward says, getting to his feet, avoiding eye contact. Edmund is going to let him go, but the words break out before he can stop them.

"I wasn't happy about it either, you know," he says. "I did what I hoped was best."

Edward stops in the doorway and makes a sound that's either a muffled laugh or a muffled sob. "I'm sure the realm would be much better off without me."

"That isn't what I meant. I meant, before -- " Edmund shakes his head, presses his fingers to his eyes. This isn't working. It's never going to work. "I was angry -- of course treason is a sin, but I said some things -- "

"No, I mean -- " Edward turns around, and his eyes are oddly bright. "You were right, anyway. I should have died."

"Edward -- " 

"I'm not like you," he says. "I can't just _live_ with it."

"But you do anyway," Edmund says.

Edward doesn't answer. He casts his eyes down, and the corners of his mouth turn upwards for the briefest of instants.

"I do anyway," Edward repeats. He looks so _broken_ that Edmund can't resist approaching him, resting a hand on his back. Edward doesn't pull away from him, which is something, anyway.

"I'm going to court in the morning," he says. "Will you come along?"

Edward sighs, and when he speaks his voice is strangely heavy. "I might as well," he says.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Love Loving Not Itself](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12160713) by [Chestnut_filly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chestnut_filly/pseuds/Chestnut_filly)




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